


Winging It

by interstellar (perihadion)



Category: Smallville
Genre: F/M, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-03-04
Updated: 2008-03-04
Packaged: 2021-02-26 10:25:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22513597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perihadion/pseuds/interstellar
Summary: Clark and Lois have dinner.
Relationships: Clark Kent/Lois Lane
Kudos: 4





	Winging It

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sacred @ Divine Intervention](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=sacred+%40+Divine+Intervention).

> Written as part of Divine Intervention's Valentine's Day ficstravaganza 2008.

This is not really happening.

Oh god, this is not really happening.

Her breath on my neck, her fingers in my hair: Lois. Lois's lips — hot, moist — are learning every inch of my clavicle, and I'm groaning. She's kissing my neck, and I'm losing my mind; I'm on fire. I'm burning in every drop of my blood, and in my eyes.

It's been so long since I lost control like this, and Lois is taking it from me, she's taking it. She's brushing her fingers over my skin, and looking at me with that unpredictable smirk. This is happening, she's saying with her eyes, this is all really happening.

And I haven't felt like this since one year ago.

I chalked it up to the red kryptonite then, but I knew. I knew it was Lois really. It's always been Lois, in every way: Lois making me hot, and happy, and everything else all in an instant; Lois wielding the matches.

She's playing with fire. I was so afraid: afraid everything would be blackened and burnt like the food she pulled out of the oven. I've been so pent up for years, keeping it inside, avoiding the open flame — thinking one spark could send the whole place up.

But if Lois doesn't strike a light soon, I might explode anyway.

*

Valentine's Day, 2008: one week since I broke up with Lana.

It was a mutual decision, maybe the only thing we ever really did as a couple. And I don't regret it, but the house felt so empty until tonight.

I stood in the kitchen, at a crossroads, feeling like I was picking up the last pieces of the illusionary future Lana was a part of: picking them up, turning them over, and realising that "normal" was something I was never going to have.

And maybe that's okay: maybe I never really wanted it that bad anyway.

Like Lois. I was starting to realise that something was driving her from inside. It was one of those things she tried to hide: the flickering, burning want to be the best, just in case she couldn't — but I had X—ray vision, and I was learning how to use it on her.

I absent—mindedly poured myself a glass of orange juice and wondered about Lois. I wondered how she was coping with Valentine's Day so soon after Oliver. I, maybe, just a bit, wondered what would happen if I had the guts to go check up on her.

And then she was there.

She was the last person I thought I would see today, knocking — _knocking_ — on my door with an uncharacteristically nervous smile.

Did she read my mind?

"Hey Smallville," she said, and then raised her eyebrows, "you gonna let me in?"

I stared at her for a moment before I realised I was blocking the doorway. I stumbled back, almost crashing into the kitchen island, and Lois breezed past me.

She tossed a box of chocolates down onto the counter. I raised my eyebrows, and she shrugged.

"Angela at work got them from her stalker ex," she said. "She was gonna trash them but — I intercepted."

I felt my mouth crack into a grin, couldn't help it. "How romantic."

"Trust me, Smallville," she raised her hands, palms out, "if I'm gonna make it through this Valentine's intact, I'm gonna need all the chocolate I can get my hands on."

"Oh, you know me," she said. "Anyway, I came over here to see how _you_ were doing."

I looked at her, confused, and she raised her eyebrows: "You know, considering you just broke up with your one true love." She shrugged, "Kinda figured you'd want some company."

How did Lois always bring out the conflict in me? I wanted to feel exasperated, and bad for her, and alright all at the same time, and I didn't know which to express. I sighed, "If this past year has shown anything Lois, I think it's that that Lana is _not_ my one true love."

She smiled, "Maybe. Anyway I figured since Chloe's ditched the cause this year to patch things up with Jimmy, it was down to you and me — as Smallville's resident singletons — to stuff ourselves with chocolate and commiserate about lost loves." She considered it for a moment, and then added, "And by 'commiserate', I do mean list the ways Valentine's Day is a complete sham."

I couldn't help it, she made me feel so much better: I smiled. She raised an eyebrow and bit her lip, "C'mon, I'll even let you cry on my shoulder."

I shook my head, "Lois, why don't you ever just _say_ you wanna hang out with me?"

"What?" she raised both eyebrows, "Be honest and open about the way I feel?" I nodded, and she shrugged, eyeing me carefully, "Where's the fun in that?"

She ate three times as many chocolates as I did, and tried to deny it. And she threw her legs across my lap without even thinking, lying sideways on the sofa as I flicked through every channel trying to find something to watch.

I discovered that Lois has an extensive knowledge of romantic comedies — although she qualified every little factoid with the words "or so I heard".

"Everyone has a guilty pleasure," she said defensively, as I laughed. "And now you know mine is... romantic comedies."

"Yeah," I said, watching her eye the remaining Valentine's candy, "and chocolate."

She turned on her back and threw a handful of wrappers at me. "Yeah, and you."

I'm a guilty pleasure? I watched her as she settled down again on her elbows. She was still talking. "I swear," she said, "if anybody knew I was here —"

I furrowed my brow, not sure whether to focus on being a pleasure, or something to be ashamed of. I might spend all night trying to figure this out; meanwhile Lois was watching me with a smile playing around the corners of her mouth.

Her mouth was such a beautiful shape.

"What?" I said, feeling slightly frustrated with her now.

"I was just thinking," she said, swinging her legs off me, sitting up and stretching, "it's not really good for us to eat all this chocolate on an empty stomach." Us? I raised an eyebrow, wondering where there was going. Lois gave me a devious look, "Why don't I cook you dinner?"

"_What?_ Lois —"

She'd already jumped off the sofa and covered half the distance to the kitchen. I followed her in, and watched her pull out half the contents of my cupboards with a sinking feeling. "Lois," I said. She was rummaging in one of my drawers now. I gulped, "Do you really think this is such a good idea?"

She pulled out a large kitchen knife. And, I'm invulnerable — but they say the way to a man's heart is through his stomach, and that was a sight to strike fear into the heart of any man.

"What's that supposed to mean?" she raised an eyebrow dangerously.

"W—well," I shifted my weight, changing tack, "maybe you should let me help."

The look on her face softened, and then she smiled. "That's sweet," she said, and looked me up and down. Was she checking me out? She cocked an eyebrow, giving me the sense of some other kind of danger, "I'm sure I can find some use for you."

This was very strange.

"Okay," I said, "so, what are we making?"

Lois reached up and pulled some more pots and pans out of one of my cupboards, "I figured we'd just throw some stuff together and see what happens," she said, and I could feel my oesphogagus tightening, "you know," she continued, "wing it." Then she looked over at me, "You oughta know something about that."

I raised my eyebrows. Lois thrust a mixing bowl into my hands.

*

An hour later, the kitchen was a wreck, the mixture I was covered in might only be identified by forensic analysis, and Lois had just put something truly horrifying in the oven.

She looked at me brightly, and then burst into laughter.

I crossed my arms defensively, "What?"

She just shook her head, and fell back against the kitchen island. "You have a little something... all over you," she said, when she caught her breath.

She was unbelievable. "Yeah," I said, incredulous, "and so do you." I stepped closer and pointed to the large wet patch on her stomach, "Here," the paste on the hip of her jeans, "here," and the smear across her cheek, "and here."

The tips of my fingers were separated from her skin just by a breath. I saw her eyes flick to them, and then back to me, and I swallowed.

She smiled, "Yeah," she said, and brushed her hand across my thigh, "and here." My heart was beating hard. Why was she —? What was she —?

"What are you doing?" I asked, and my voice was low.

She stopped smiling, slowly, but her eyes were on fire. She looked me up and down, and then leaned in. Somehow, her lips brushed against mine, and left a burning in their wake.

I grabbed her shoulders and pressed my lips harder against hers. I felt her swallow, and then her hands were on my back, her lips slipping away from mine to kiss my neck softly.

Then she was on the counter, and I was pressed into her: warm, hard. How did this —?

"Lois," I pulled back, my chest heaving, "Lois."

"Sorry," she relaxed and her head fell into my neck, "I just thought —"

She just thought —? Did she —? My head was spinning.

I wanted to know what to say, but she was making it so difficult: looking like that, with god—knows—what in her hair; leaning against me, her breath hot against my neck. I had wanted this now for so long, and I was so confused it was burning me out from the inside.

"I want you," she said softly into my neck, and I closed my eyes. "I tried to deny it," she said, and then laughed, "I tried not to — you're _Smallville_. But I just —" I could feel her shaking her head.

She pushed me back by the shoulders, and then shrugged with that dismissive attitude towards pain that made me ache. "Guess I should have known better, huh?"

She made to slide off the counter, but I put my hand on her shoulder, and she just looked at me. I swallowed. "Lois, I ... had no idea." I breathed in deeply, knowing I had to be honest, "And I feel the same way. I mean, I didn't know how much —"

"But you love Lana," she smiled wryly, "I get it."

I stared at her. "No," I said, "that's not it." She raised an eyebrow, and I sighed. "I just don't know what's going to happen in my life. I don't know if —"

"Don't say anything," she cut across me. "Just stop talking." I raised my eyebrows, and she breathed out, long and slow. "Sometimes," she said, putting her hand on my shoulder, "you just have to feel your way. You know," she cocked her head, "wing it."

Then she put her fingers in my hair, and her lips to my mouth, and I closed my eyes. I wanted this, I wanted this in every cell of my body.

I put my hands to her waist, and ran my fingers up her back, underneath her top. She was so warm, raising her knees and crossing her legs behind my back. I felt the blood drain from my body — I felt so weak for her.

Then her fingers found the buttons on the shirt she had worn after her shower three years ago, and I had to stop her, putting my hands on hers.

"Lois," I said, "I can't do this — not without telling you,"

"What?" she said, sounding more than a little frustrated, "That you're not of this world? That you can shoot fire from your eyes? That you have a greater calling?"

I pulled away from her then, my heart pounding, "_What?_"

"Oh god," she said, looking chastised and more than a little annoyed with herself, "Clark you're really bad at keeping secrets — I didn't go asking around, I swear." And there was something in her eyes: I knew she was telling the truth.

"I just thought, since you were about to tell me anyway," she smiled weakly, "maybe we could just cut to the chase?"

Somehow, I was laughing, shaking my head and laughing. "You're amazing," I said, and it was so true.

I caught my breath, and tried to stop my head from spinning. There was a world of possibility in my kitchen tonight, but now all I could think was — but Lois...

"I know what you're going to say," she said, before I started to speak, and somehow I believed she did, "it'll be Oliver all over again — and I know that." She said it like this was something she'd spent weeks trying to work out, and maybe she had. And maybe part of me had been thinking it over as well.

"Believe me, I _know_," she continued, "but I don't — I can't —" she breathed out, frustrated, "I can't help but just want this," she said, and looked at me with aching clarity, "Tonight might be my only chance to kid myself that this could work."

Oh.

It was then that I realised what I wanted to give Lois, what I would always want to give Lois: the idea that there were ways she could come first with me, that it could work with us, even with the world on both of our shoulders.

"It's burning," she said, frowning.

She nodded over my shoulder, and I saw the smoke coming from the oven. Laughing and choking at the same time, I fanned it away with my hands and Lois pulled out the charred carcass of whatever she had been trying to cook.

She looked at it ruefully. "So much for dinner," she said.

I grinned, "Well, maybe we could do something else."

She raised an eyebrow, deviously, and put her head to one side, "Oh yeah?"

It was so strange, how confident and unsure I felt at the same time. But the way she bit her lip — I wanted her so badly, and I thought, no, she said, she wanted me.

And somehow she was in my arms, and I found myself in the living room, on the sofa. Why here? It was close, maybe. It didn't matter. All that mattered was Lois, and the way her fingers felt in my hair.

She ran a hand down over my top to my jeans, to where I ached for her. I closed my eyes and sucked in my breath. Then I leaned forward and kissed her neck, along her collarbone. She groaned: I felt it rumble through her, and through me.

How was this happening? How had we got here so suddenly? Don't question it, her fingers said to me, brushing lightly against the skin on my hips. And don't think, her lips said, pressing their way along my jaw. Don't think.

I slid my hands under her top, and brushed my fingers lightly over the skin of her stomach. She breathed out, a long shuddering sigh, and I pressed my lips into her neck. Then I felt her hands fumbling with the buttons on my shirt, and tried to help her. We got our fingers all tangled up, and she started to laugh: snorting and leaning her head against my shoulder.

Feeling like an idiot, I gave up on the buttons and just ripped my shirt open. Lois just laughed harder.

"Stop it," I said, feeling the blood rush to my face, "it's not funny."

"How do you dress yourself in the morning?" she asked, still shaking with laughter.

"This is not a good time," I warned, and she shook her head.

"Sorry," she said, taking a deep breath. "It's just — do you tie your own shoelaces?"

I hate Lois so much sometimes.

But not right now, with her hair all messed up and food still on her face. Right now, I think I love her — and, oh God, it's Lois. I can't parse that right now: none of this makes sense. I can't think. 

Just wing it, just wing it. 

I pulled her tank top up over her head, and she fell back against the cushions, just in her bra and jeans. I wanted her so badly, every inch of her: the raised hairs on the nape of her neck, the smooth skin of her stomach. I leant forward, pressing my lips to her ribs, working my way up to her bra.

She groaned and thrust her hips up, her knees gripping my waist.

I felt myself getting hard, and it was almost more than I could bear the way she was moving against me, the friction between us.

To make up for my clumsiness with the shirt, I unhooked her bra as quickly as I could, as she ran her fingers lightly down my bare back, lighting a fire that ran right down to the base of my spine.

We kicked our shoes off, and pulled off our socks. I near fell over trying to remove my jeans, and Lois burst into laughter again — but it didn't matter.

Every sense was tuned on her: the way she looked, the way she felt, the sounds she was making — and with every raised eyebrow, every strategic touch, she took more control over me.

I could feel myself panicking, losing my grip, but in the most powerful, incredible way.

The skin of her inner thigh was so soft. She grunted when I kissed her there, and rocked her hips slowly.

Her hands brushed down my chest, tracing the lines of my muscles. She pressed her mouth — warm, hot — against my collarbone, and I felt myself shiver at her touch.

Something tightened inside me, and I looked up at her. Her lip curved dangerously and I felt like I knew what I was doing: I was about to make love to someone whose power burned like the Sun — someone who made me yearn, and ache, and want.

That smirk introduced a kind of smoky clarity.

I felt myself groan deep in my throat as she touched the head of my cock.

"Lois," I said, and my voice came out deep and throaty.

Her eyes were unreadable, unpredictable, but shining, and I pushed it all, the disbelief, the uncertainty, down, down, down. And when she smiled again, I let it all go.

"Clark," she said, her lips against my ear, "just wing it."

She thrust her hips up against me, and I closed my eyes, burying my face in her neck.

Guided by her hand, I pushed inside, my whole body thrumming in time with hers. I felt her gasp, her hands gripping my shoulders. My heart was pounding.

She moved her hips slowly against mine, and I clenched my eyes shut. I needed control — I needed control with the one person who had stripped me of it all. I moved tentatively, holding my breath against the friction building between us, but Lois was making it so difficult now.

She was setting the pace and building it. I was trying to cage the fire burning inside me, trying to stay in control. But — oh god, is this really happening?

She pushed up against me with a deep moan, and I felt my breath rush out: losing control, winging it.

I thrust into her as she arched her back to meet me, her fingers digging into my impermeable skin. Then I felt her tense beneath me and I knew I was going to lose it.

I kissed her then, so hard, as she rose to meet me. And then I lost my grip on control, and came in her as all her muscles relaxed.

And she was okay, when I looked at her: she was ok. Still smiling, almost laughing at me.

We collapsed together then against the sofa, and she rolled over, putting her head on my chest.

"That was better than dinner," she said. And I felt myself smiling.

"Happy Valentine's Day."

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi on [twitter](http://twitter.com/theoceanblooms) or [tumblr](http://spectroscopes.tumblr.com)!


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